


The Jeep Driver

by Virodeil



Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [13]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Age Regression/De-Aging, Canon Divergence - Thor (2011), Confusions Abound, Gen, Hot Weather, Internalised Racism, Jeeps, Loki Does What He Wants, Loki-centric, Miðgarðr | Midgard, Other, Overheating, Overstimulation, POV Loki (Marvel), Secret Identity, Uncomfortable Loki, Vehicles, Vomiting, hidden identity, internalised sexism, unexpected help
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-11
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-01-27 17:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21396271
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: Just after visiting his SHIELD-incarcerated brother on Midgard, the newly appointed Regent King Loki literally stumbles on a huge, old jeep, warn and dusty but well cared for. It isn’t the jeep that intrigues him, though, but its driver. And, just like all other things that make him curious throughout the centuries, he pursues this interest.Can he go home from this adventure? Will he? Where is "home," anyway?
Relationships: Laufey (Marvel) & Loki (Marvel)
Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1089204
Comments: 43
Kudos: 83





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).

> Happy birthday, Lov_pb! Here’s something that you might like. ☺
> 
> But, just wanted to say, to everyone, this is not a “human” or “modern-day” AU. Just a gapfiller in Thor 1 that quickly turns off the beaten path. Also, apparently the muse wanted this drawn out, so you are going to be treated to 3 chapters, or at least it's what _I_ have planned for this by the end of the first part. (I hope not more than that, but I don’t have a good record of beating the ever-tiranical muse.) And, given the future fluidity of changes between environments, topics, etc, the story tags will keep being added as we go along.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heat stroke is never fun. Even less fun when one is the regent king of the highest realm in the Nine, out on a hidden agenda without back-up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started on: 24th October 2019 at 07:49 PM  
Finished on: 11th November 2019 at 09:37 PM

The first thing that Loki is always aware of in this tiny, dusty, pathetic Midgardian village is the _heat_. Right after he came out of the nearest hidden path leading here, during his torturous walk across the village in search of his brother, and now that he is back out again. This damned heat was even present as he traversed the narrow halls of the flimsy building that somehow surrounds Mjolnir, as he was forced to interact with the organisation that turned out to have held and will still hold his brother for an indefinite amount of time, and as he spoke with the said brother himself.

The second thing that also greets him _over_enthusiastically here is the _light_. It is more blinding than the one shining on most of Asgard, on par with the sunlight glancing off of the golden walls there. And the _over_abundance of light here only makes the heat seem all the _more_ potant.

Added to his barely adjusted seiðr, after the _temporary_ bond with Gungnir as the Regent King and his hidden travel to this backwater settlement on this backwater planet, he feels like he is _melting_ inside.

He keeps a composed surface bearing despite everything, but it seems to be worth nothing at present. Sweat runs down all over him, creating itchy dampness _everywhere_ on his skin and under his hair. Moreover, the patches that the sun burns mercilessly _also_ sting and throb horribly, as though his skin had been in the process of being pealed away from his flesh. And his sight wavers alarmingly in tandem with the giant heart throbbing inside of his skull, to boot.

And then, he bumps against a vertical, darkly coloured, curiously shaped surface of _heated metal_.

He falls on his butt on the dirty, dusty, man-made ground with a yelp, after flailing and staggering to keep his balance without avail.

There goes his dignity… along with his melting internal organs… including his brain….

Actually, maybe, that last point could explain why he does not even attempt to get up to his knees, if not his feet, as soon as his bottom touches the burning whatever-it-is that was previously under his boots.

He does not even react, at first, when a hand – _a cool, cool hand_ – lands on his shoulder. But then the said hand – blissfully cool, gentle to boot – is joined by another, and, together, the pair hoist him up to his feet by his armpits. The forced movement, if almost _tender_ for a stranger, in turn forces him to refocus himself on his environment, however overwhelming. And slowly, slowly, slowly, thoughts begin to trickle back into his melty brain.

The first impression that registers in his mind is that he feels really, really like a child, now. It is… ironic: Asgard’s _king_, for however short a time and despite however undeserving he is to bear such title, being held up by his armpits. Powerless like a rabbit in an eagle’s talon. Not even deserving of being a _jötun_, since those beasts are supposed to be awefully powerful, if mindless and brutish.

But then again, he is a weakling runt among those beasts, is he not? It is why he was abandoned, is it not?

Well, he is going to show them _all_, even his father – no, _King Odin_. `_I am **not** a weakling!_`

His churning, muddled brain still pounds heartily in his head, in tandem with the pounding of his heart, the heaving of his chest, the throbbing of his sunburnt skin, the roiling of his seiðr and the wavering dance of his vision. His legs can barely support him, at that, feeling like a pair of particularly noodly sticks of cheese. _But_ it should not be a reason – there should not be _any_ reason for him to show weakness to _anybody_.

So he does his best to straighten up his legs, then his back, with the cool, cool hands that somehow still support him as the focusing point. And then he looks up to gauge who has helped him…

…And up, and up, and _up_, before he meets the stranger’s eyes. Bright yellowish green. So much like _his_. In shape, in size, almost in colour… and _definitely_ in intensity.

And people who have been working closely with both him and King Odin often notes how _similar_ they are when coolly, silently and impassively judging someone, _just like this_.

On that thought, for the second time in what feels like just as many moments, Loki’s mind melts into an uncomprehending puddle, which is soon populated by questions swimming frantically but aimlessly here and there.

`_Why does this stranger look like me? How can I look like Fath… – **Odin** – if I am only his adopted son? How can this stranger look like Odin, for that matter? Why do I have to look so far up? Have I **shrunk** in this heat? I am considered tall for my age! How do I explain this to Mother and the Court, then? What does this stranger want with me? Why are they still holding me up? Who is this stranger? Do they know who I am? Why are their hands cool? How can I escape them? How can I return home in this condition? Do I want to? Such cool hands…. Does this stranger mean harm to me or Asgard? How can I defend myself with me being this pathetic? What should I say? How can I work my seiðr to go home? Am I trapped here? Who tends the throne without me – no, without Gungnir? Mother? But without Gungnir…? Can I ask this stranger for a glass of something cool? Dare I? Will they want something from me in return? Will I be able to comply without jeopardising myself and Asgard?_`

Any of those questions could be uttered, or even all of them, or even _more_ of the same garble. However, once the beleaguered regent-king-by-reluctant-elimination feels more solid once more, once the muscles on his jaw loosen a little, and once his throat unclogs, he ends up _just_ staring helplessly at his equally silent counterpart, anyway.

Fortunately… or not… the said counterpart is the one who speaks, at last: “What is your name, child?”

`_Name…._` “I am….” `_Unmanly trickster. Cowardly silvertongue. Green-shoot upstart. This stranger even agrees that I am a **child**. But I am–_` “–Not a child.”

“I did not expect, indeed, that your name would be ‘Child’,” is the infuriating, infuriatingly calm return. “However, I do need your name in order to help you further, child. And if you–“ a light squeeze on Loki’s ribs under the armpits, perhaps to forestall the rebuttal that is ready to be launched out of his gaping mouth “–do not give me your identity, I will have to call you ‘child’ until you do.”

In the expectant pause that ensues, Loki gives the stranger a disbelieving look. “I thank you for your assistance,” he says lowly, stiffly, at length, although with only a quarter of his usual smoothness and finesse; slurring a little, to boot. “However, I am _not_ a missing toddler to be returned to his family. I was here on a personal errand, and I am ready to go home presently. I would be grateful if you would not speak of this… incident… to anyone, but that would be all the further assistance I would need from you. I… was just unprepared for the weather. Nobody needs to know about this. Perhaps I could help you in return, with something that I could do but would not jeopardise either myself or others?”

He stops speaking when the stranger’s eyes, formerly impassive but calm, darkens with a storm of emotions that makes him _almost_ take a literal step back.

He _does_ take a mental step back, instinctively. And the stranger _knows_, somehow, for the storm in those all-too-similar eyes turns more vicious for a while, before it collapses completely into their prior unreadability, minus the light that seemed to shine deep within.

And then they say, in a calm, level tone that feels so much – _too much_ – like Odin’s when the latter is concealing a great emotion, usually fury after a disastrous outcome of his children’s – no, his _child’s_ and Loki’s – so-called adventures, “Then I request that you keep me company for the next few days, until I know for certain that the weather will not impact you unduely as you return home.” And, before Loki can interrupt to point out that this can never be categorised as _returned favour_ from any angle and in any situation, they continue, “This will free me from wondering if the stranger I once assisted has returned home safely, in the coming weeks, months and years. I also happen to need a second opinion on a few matters, as well as a second pair of hands. We can settle for further payment should we agree that your assistance exceed what I may require you to perform.”

There are too many hidden meanings in those words. There are too many new questions springing from those statements. And Loki’s mind, sadly, is not yet recovered enough to handle such. The sudden appearance of the sheer formality _and the negotiation itself_ stands out, though, and….

“I…. My apologies. My family will be looking for me soon. I need to return home presently, or they will be unnecessarily worried.” `_Deflect. Deny. Lie. Buy time. – I cannot think while still in this condition._` “Can we … later?” `_Wait. What did I say? I cannot think! I must recover somewhere safe, before stepping any closer to the Pathways._`

He blinks his eyes rapidly to try to get his eyes into focus, despite the overbright light that stabs mercilessly into them. The light colour of the stranger’s clothing makes the illumination hurt even more, though, and it is the only thing that his eyes see right now. So he tries to sidestep, to focus his eyes instead on whatever it was that sent him sprawling on the ground just now, which was dark and did not reflect the sunlight.

He stumbles, _again_, and would fall back down if the stranger’s arms were not still holding him up.

Unfortunately, the stranger seems to view this _temporary weakness_ as evidence that he cannot be trusted with his own words… not that people trust his words much… at least in Asgard… at least for the upper tiers….

`_Wha…? What? What did they say? What did I say? – Hey! Where am I?_`

Loki blinks again, then keeps his eyes wide, although his vision is somehow blurrier than before: darker and unfocused. – Everything has _changed_! He is now seated somewhere, held down in an upright position to the seat by the lap and partially across the chest by… wide lengths of rope? And a blessedly cool air is blowing all round him.

Well, it is actually the cool air – or rather, the stark difference of temperatures – that defeats his composure, this time, by inciting him to heave up the contents of his stomach, so he has to rethink the “blessedness” of his new environment. It is _mortifyingly humiliating_, after all, to be taken care of like a sick child: having his mouth wiped with a cool, damp cloth, being prompted to rince the taste of bile and half-digested food off his tongue, and all done _by the stranger_; through a soft, coaxing voice that does not hurt his ears or overwhelm his mind, at that, and equally soft touches that do not make his body rebel more.

Like _a mother_.

`_I miss Mother,_` he thinks, fuzzily, before a faint, soft strain of peaceful melodies drifts into his mind and sends him into blissful oblivion.


	2. The Treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being an adult but treated like a child is bad enough. Being a _king_ but treated like a misbehaving commoner urchin, though, is _unbelievable_, but not in a good way. Still, _why_?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year, everyone! Here's the second installment to the story, even more bizarre than before. Still, I hope you like it: a rather pointless, somewhat fluffy, somewhat nonsensical piece to begin the year. :)
> 
> Started on: 12th November 2019 at 09:34 AM  
Finished on: 1st January 2020 at 08:14 PM

Waking up in an _un_organic, moving, loudly motorised vehicle is a strange, new experience that Loki cannot decide whether to like or dislike.

His opinion tips towards “dislike” as nausea is making itself known _again_. It pools low in his stomach but threatens to surge up, triggered by the sharp, somewhat stale air that he has no choice but to breathe in. His head and the back of his eyes throb unpleasantly, as well, reminded by the source of the nausea: the intense desert afternoon that at last defeated him.

On that thought, he opens his eyes a little, cautiously, just enough to allow a thin bar of light to enter, so as not to re-overwhelm himself.

`_Oh. Nice,_` he grudgingly thinks, as the light proves to be gentle on his well-abused eyes, even though it appears to be still the height of daylight. It remains so even when he gradually opens his eyes fully, and he cannot help but slump in relief.

Ignoring the presence that he can _acutely_ feel to his left, he scrutinises the passing scenery displayed through the viewports before him and to his right…

…Which is no longer recogniseable as anywhere close to the pathetic, pitiful desert-edge village Thor was thrown down into.

His heart thumps faster, louder.

`_Where am I? How long have I been unconscious? What happened to make me unconscious? Was it the music? How can I guard against it? What does this captor want with me? Ransom? Information? Did I somehow hint to them that I am the Regent King of Asgard? I did reject their offer to go with them, did I not? Why did they still persist? Are they aware that this counts as kidnapping?_`

Then, `_Are they even aware that I am no longer unconscious? Their presence feels aware…._` His mouth, soured by traces of vomit, dries up fast. His heart feels as though it were beating hard in his throat, now, and also in his ears.

And still, his kidnapper stays silent, even… subdued? `_Why subdued? What do they want, really?_`

Seeing that he will only run in circles without more information, the hapless captive sures up his will, gathers his seiðr, and looks to his left.

He sees a… _large_ ás-like being seated at the… driving station?… of the loud, slow, land-bound, somewhat confining vehicle, separated from him by a strip of control panel. “Large” as in the proportions of everything, truly, but terribly slim otherwise.

Like a skinny giant. If there is anything as paradoxical as a skinny giant, that is. The stories told by the Jötunheim War veterans always portray the frost giants as huge, hulking creatures….

`_Now why do I return to this **again**?!_` his mind berates him. So, with an internal shake of his head, he returns to the observation…

…But the skinny giant is no longer passively bearing his scrutiny, now. They are looking at him eye to eye, in fact.

Loki swallows, as surreptitiously as he can.

The giant is not only skinny, but also dressed in a simple, Midgard-style short-sleeved shirt that looks rather worn. The set of their shoulders and back, however, despite the odd belt that straps them to their seat across the lap and front, similar to their captive, truly reminds Loki of Odin. And the weight in their eyes….

“Who are you?” the hapless second prince of Asgard manages, at last, after several tries that he prays with all his might have not been noticed by his captor.

“Who are you, yourself?” the skinny giant returns, just as softly, though with the confidence that Loki presently envies.

“I asked first, stranger,” the captive retorts; trying to smile a little to ingratiate himself, or perhaps to soften the blow a little, or to lighten the dense mood in the vehicle that he has just noticed has stopped moving, he himself does not know. “I distinctly remember that I wished to be left alone, as well.”

On that semi-humorous proclamation, the other pair of green eyes, just a few shades lighter than his are, _and possessing the same shape and stare_, glint with something that he cannot hope to analyse at present.

“Indulge me,” the captor murmurs, then. It sounds so much like an edict that Loki straightens up automatically, with a just as automatic “Yes, King-Father” at the tip of his tongue.

The response, which he quickly swallows back, feels like a jagged shard of deep ice.

“We should agree not to give our respective identities to each other, then,” he declares, in the same faux-light tone from before, while trying with all his might not to show any hint of nervousness.

The captor neither agrees nor disagrees. Restarting the vehicle, they ask, without looking at the captive, “Were you born here?”

“No. Were you?”

“No.”

And the mutual interrogations go on, as the vehicle rolls towards somewhere Loki knows nothing about, passing through various environments in the meantime. It feels as though they were dancing round each other while tiptoeing among a field of deadly traps; exciting, but also pretty tiring and unnerving.

Loki is not surprised, then, that he feels deadened when they at last halt a long, long while after, as the planet’s star is about to set for the day. The… parking lot?… that they are carefully entering belongs to a complex of rustic-looking cottages and bigger buildings with many windows, interspersed with lush flower gardens and small woods. The buildings lie along a wide stretch of pale-brown-yellow sandy beach, if not as spacious lengthwise. Three obstacle tracks run along one side of the beach, while a rather large pond with clear water and man-made bed lies on the opposite side. And beyond the thick tideline, an expanse of calm, blue sea lies from horizon to horizon, dotted with colourful boats which are as noisy as the vehicle he is trapped in is.

Seawater-thickened hot air rushes into the artificially chilled atmosphere inside the vehicle when the captor opens the driver-side door. Caught off-guard, Loki reflexively cringes and scrambles to protect himself, traumatised by his earlier embarrassment. Before he can use the chance to also escape the vehicle, however, the door beside him is jerked open and a large, thin, cool hand lands on his shoulder.

Just so, oddly familiar seiðr swirls round him, from head to toe, carrying cool breeze with it that seems to stay and cocoon him, augmenting his own protection… as if both had _always_ existed side by side.

Loki reels.

`_So familiar. Why familiar? Did I know them before? How? Where? When? It feels as though it were so long ago. But I learnt seiðr from Mother – no, no, Frigga – only when I was past my first combat trial and I was already four hundred then! And I had learnt from nobody else before that! And this connection is too intimate for a casual tutorial with a stranger! Who are they? How could it be that I was **that** accustomed to them when I was a little child?_`

The restraining belts click open and snap-slithers away, but the hapless Asgardian-raised jötun is too carried away in the déjà-vu-seeming moment and the internal turmoil that it has caused. He only jerks back to reality, as rudely as he has been thrown aback, when his captor scoops him up into… _her_?… arms. `_I am not a **toddler**!_`

He tries to squirm free, but the insane _woman_ seems to be able to predict whatever he tries to do. Instead of getting away, he is pressed snugly flush against her front, and his face is tucked into the crook of her neck.

“Behave well, child. I am getting impatient, and I am sure that you are not yet recovered enough to spend your energy this needlessly,” the woman dares _chastise_ him, as she jerks the door of the vehicle shut with her seiðr and… locks it, judging from the beeping and clicking sounds it makes. She is even insolent enough to _dangle a treat_ before him for his good behaviour, namely “ice cream” and playing in the sea, as though he were really a naughty little child made respectable for a formal function.

Well, if she intends to treat him like a child, then he will retaliate as though he were a child indeed.

So he bites the crook of her neck, which is the most accessible exposed skin of hers that he can reach, like he vaguely remembers he did when he was toddling, before the constant remonstrations of Frigga and Thor – though, strangely, not Odin – put him off the habit – no, the _instinct_.

And, shockingly, not to mention just as strangely, this woman _also_ does not mind it that much. She just turns his head slightly, gently, silently, away from her neck, freeing him to look round a little, then rubs circles on his back…

…Like _Odin_ did, in that dimly remembered time, before Frigga imitated the action.

Loki quivers in the stranger’s hold, freaked out and very, very confused.

His captor moves, then, walking with a slow, sure, smooth gait, away from the vehicle which he now can see as something akin to a charriot without any animal tugging it, coloured a sunlight-absorbing forest green. Many vehicles like it are parked in rows on the dark-grey, faintly gleaming, sun-baked surface of the parking lot, which is thankfully empty of living, sentient spectators… presently.

“Let me walk on my own?” he resorts to pleading quietly, earnestly when they are exiting the parking lot through a gate, manned by a youth who looks _amused_ at his plight. “I will not flee you for three days of this place’s accounting, as long as you do not harm me or try to influence my free will in any way, and as long as you give me back my freedom of movement.”

“And you will answer _all_ my questions without any omission, outright lie, allusions to what is not common knowledge to me, excuses of any kind, and any misdirection?” his captor retorts. “And you will otherwise obey me without a fuss as long as I do not try to influence you in any way?”

Loki slumps. Trying to make a deal with this woman is like trying to make a deal with Frigga. And given the fact that he has regarded Frigga as his _mother_ practically all his life, in addition to the sensations he has been receiving in this woman’s company, the comparison is very, very, very _disconcerting_.

And still, he tries.

“I am myself. Let me be myself for three days, including walking on my own feet, and I will answer some questions from you that I choose myself, in the meantime, without any omissions, misdirections, allusions to things that are unknown to you, untruth, and non-valid excuses.”

“I reserve the right to carry you and otherwise take care of you should you need it,” is the – very, very exasperating and bemusing – retort, spoken after a thoughtful pause in which the skinny giant _keeps moving_. “The number of questions that you answer with all honesty is not less than ten _for each day_, moreover, and you agree not to be belligerent in attitude, words and perception towards me for the duration of three days of this place’s accounting. In turn, I shall vow to you that I shall not attempt to influence you in words and attitude _unless_ you are about to do a disservice to yourself and me, for the next three days, and I shall not bar you from leaving should you _prove_ that you have truly recovered past three days.”

Loki is very, very, very tempted to bite her again. Especially since he has just realised that she has stalled long enough that his bargain is now somewhat of a moot point. They have entered a much more sentient-populated area, after all, and about to enter what looks and feels like the main building in the whole property.

There are _many_ witnesses to this undignified state of his, and now he has to deal with _them_ instead of this woman.

“Damn you,” he hisses, then tries to squirm free more frantically.

On that, unbelievably, his captor lets him slide down, back to his feet, on the polished stone floor inside the building.

But then, she grabs at the tip of his right ear _and tugs him along by that ear_.

“Ow!” he grimaces. But whatever he says, whatever he does, the damned harsh, demeaning skinny giant refuses to let him go or stop walking with his ear pinched between their thumb and forefinger.

It is good, then, maybe, that he is just a _temporary_ king of Asgard, and she does not know that he is at all a king or a prince. To be marched across a public building _by his ear_, while being gawked by commoners…!

The woman and the stone counter she is seated behind at the end of their steady path, though…. “Have I shrunk?” the hapless not-ás mutters to himself for the second time, totally flammoxed, nearly forgetting his throbbing eartip. Because she and the counter seem giant-like compared to him, though not compared to his captor, who is… asking for a room to stay for three days? In exchange with entertaining the visitors to the inn’s café with music for three nights?

`_But she said that she wanted to consult with me for a few matters. Why not do it in a more private setting? Without this much hassle? She is kidnapping me, as well, so why put me in such a public place? And she will not be able to watch for what I am doing if she is performing at the ‘Café’, will she? Can I shout for Heimdall as long as we are away from the peasants, then? She seems to be harmless, if I do not ‘misbehave’, so a few candlemarks in her company is probably doable._`

With that thought in mind, which is slowly but surely hardening into a decision, the stranded, accidentally exiled Regent King of Asgard relaxes a little. It prompts the release of his poor eartip, which puts action to both his own observation and the insane woman’s own offer of promise.

Now, time to perform his becst act yet.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Like it? Hate it? Ambivalent towards it? I'd _love_ to hear what you thought and felt about this ride, folks. Constructive criticisms, ideas, brainstorming chats, rants etc are also welcome. ☺


End file.
